I Need You To Say Yes
by ladie red
Summary: 5.01 tag. Michael tries to persuade Dean. It doesn't really work. "Go to Hell, Mike. Go to Hell, take a look around, then come back and try to win me over me over. It took thirty years down there for me to say yes and, buddy, you don't really compare."


_xposted at LJ. Not mine. Spoilers for 5.01. Much loves goes to my beta immortal_jedi over at LJ, who braved the perils of my punctuation._

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The night was sometimes a friend to Dean Winchester.

Under its cover he crept, in his element, one with the darkness. With the stealth he moved and that abyss of black he was a shadow within a world of shadow. It was also a blanket, protecting him from the eyes of the law as he dug and dug and dug. On rare occasions it even gave him the one up on his enemy.

But in honesty, more often than not, night brought unkind memories for Dean Winchester.

Naturally, with the things he hunted, those unnatural entities with predatory skills better than he, the night just made things more strenuous. The dark was a home for these creatures whereas it was the darkness that had taken Dean's home, over a quarter century before. That one November night that had taken away any chance of light and life, instead a darker dawn emerging, suffocating the remnants of what once was.

Darkness brought death; Mary's, Jessica's, John's, Sam's and then Dean's. In the aftermath death then brought nightmares to what was left of the Winchesters. Tossing and turning, lost in the horror, staring up at a burning ceiling or a burning world, a burning Hell.

Needless to say, the Winchesters were restless sleepers.

On the odd occasion they were in beds during the time between pm and am - instead of creeping through an abandoned building or trudging through the undergrowth - it almost became a competition to see who could stay awake longest. They would listen to each other's breathing, waiting for the other's to deepen and flatten out into a rhythmic, gentle snore. Back in the months after Jess, Dean would let Sam win, more out of helplessness than anything else, unable to do anything, say anything other than submit to sleep, letting Sam fight, letting Sam do this, letting Sam grieve. Alone. Three years and four months later roles reversed and it was instead Dean plagued by flashes of fire and death behind closed lids. This time Sam just got to the point where he would leave rather than let himself listen to Dean not sleep. Another form of helplessness.

Now, in what they knew to be the beginning of the end of days, sleep took just as long to come, though now for various reasons that each did not share. In this present there was a silence between them was not uncomfortable in its desperate, helpless kindness but uncomfortable in its thick, empty void. Sam was exhausted, Dean knew that, yet Sam didn't sleep. He was waiting for Dean. For Dean to not sleep, for Dean to be the stubborn one and play the game, winning. That was how things were supposed to be. You couldn't describe a Winchester without using the word stubborn. It was how things were supposed to be, a fight, a constant battle between brothers, never spoken in words but repeated every night. Tradition. But now things weren't how they were supposed to be, never would be again.

So instead Dean slept.

Hell was old news now. Sure, the odd night it crept up on him, left him sweating and threadbare, but what was almost as terrifying, almost, was all that had happened since Hell. The problematic fact of Hell on earth. And Sam, always Sam. Nowadays dreams weren't dreams so much, not even nightmares specifically, more of snowballing thoughts, tangling what if's and never-ending illogic reasoning. Every which way, they were screwed, trapped, and often so was Dean in such sleeping thoughts.

But tonight he woke up smoothly, leaving all that behind, instinct switching every fiber of his being directly into hunter mode. His knife, always kept concealed beneath pillow after shady motel pillow, was now in his hand. Just like that, eyes open, knife out, sitting up, fluid. The unknown presence, cause for his tension, was a shadow standing at the end of the bed, hands seemingly in pockets, looking down at the once sleeping Dean, silhouetted into the dim light of the dark motel room. 6'1, male, human - well - humanoid at least, hidden in shadow.

It only took Dean seconds to evaluate the entity, weight up the danger. There was no danger. Nearly thirty years of experience and Dean could tell. Didn't make some random in their motel room any less accepted though. Sure, this sort of thing happened a lot more often as of late but that didn't mean Dean liked it, quite the opposite in fact. He glanced across the room at Sam's bed, his bulky form comatose sprawled across the mattress, seems he'd eventually fallen asleep too. The alarm clock next to Sam's bed displayed three in the morning, there was a gun sitting there too, reaching distance between both beds. He glanced back at the stranger, who still stood looming above him, still faceless in the dark.

Dean didn't lower his blade but propped himself up more comfortably, wary. "Angel, I suppose?"

His voice finally seemed to warrant a reaction and there came a small chuckle from the shadows before his name was spoken, softly, fondly, proudly, "_Dean._"

Dean froze, squinting at the figure for half a second. He recognized that voice, could never, would never, forget that voice. This voice had been around even before Sam's, steadfast in his life and would always remain, even in its death, in Dean's head, pushing him on, demanding more, relentless.

The knife wobbled slightly in his hand for the briefest of moments before Dean steadied it, reaching with his other hand to flick on the bedside lamp. There stood John Winchester at the foot of the bed, wearing the same uncharacteristic smile, proud and free, that had shone true that night in Wyoming. Before he had disappeared into the beyond.

"I'm dreaming." Dean said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes." John agreed evenly, moved to sit himself on the edge of the bed.

Every single thing about John screamed John, even in that minute half a step to the left of the bed, in the way he held himself, sinking down onto the mattress. But Dean actually flinched away as John got nearer, the movement involuntary and confused. His father noted the movement and held up his hands, belaying no threat. Dean didn't relax though, expression morphing into a glare. His gut told him he was in no danger. Yet his gut contradicted itself, telling him this was not his father.

The thing wearing his father's face seemed to recognize that, shaking John's head with a small, nonchalant shrug, "I didn't think this would really fool you for long."

Dean raised his eyebrows, waiting.

"I'm not your father, Dean." Not-John stated.

_Okay_. Dean drew a tired hand across his face. He was so very much over being messed with and this just took the cake, "Then what the fuck do you think you're doing dressing up like him?"

"I though you might feel more comfortable..."

"Yes," he said, deadpan, pulling his knees against his chest, "Because the appearance of my four years dead father in the middle of the night is comforting."

"You listen to your father."

The knife was useless, this was a dream, yet Dean still sought comfort in it, gesturing about with it, liking to know it was there, showing it off, however foolish. "Yes, I listened. Once upon a very long time ago. Past tense. But now he's dead so whatever it is he is about to say, or rather, whatever it is you're about to say, I'm not interested."

Not-John looked down at his hands, surveying them. Dean got the impression that it was not in an attempt of desperate avoidance and distraction but rather because he was actually honestly interested in the worn callouses. Typical.

The impostor finally looked him at Dean, head tilted to the left, "You don't even know who I am."

Dean raised an eyebrow, "Yeah, you're angel. I can tell. You guys just radiate not-human. Even demons do a better job."

The angel shook John's head stiffly, eyes searching Dean's, "But you don't know who_ I_ am."

Dean shrugged, shifting back against the headboard, "I'm gonna guess you're rather important 'cause you're even more self righteous than that dick-wad Zac. My awesome reasoning skills lead me to deduct that you must be Michael."

Michael gave a slow, calm nod, as if his presence was something to be in awe of and Dean just rolled his eyes, "Yeah, no, not really a pleasure to meet you. Piss off."

Michael blinked, "I need you Dean."

"The answer is no."

It was a trifle disconcerting saying no to John Winchester's face, four years of rather hard slog apparently not enough to erase that lasting impression from Dean's mind. Although he'd actually said it, said _no_ and his voice had been strong, firm. Turning down the angel of all angels _and_ his dad in one go, yep, he was officially a big boy now.

Michael was less impressed with that answer it seemed and stood in one fluid movement, almost pacing. "You should want to do this." he said slowly, "I do not understand. In doing so you will save people. That is what you do, save people. You deem it your job. Why would you..."

"Because I can." Dean's eyes danced as he sat up, giving a little apologetic shrug."hey, what can I say, I'm a rebel."

Michael paused in his movement and looked hard at Dean, reading, always reading, a scrutiny Dean refused to flinch under. Then the angel shifted his glance to the sleeping Sam, eyes narrowing, something which resulted in more that just a flinch within Dean. The knife was suddenly visible once again and he was half upright before Michael turned to face him again, taking in Dean's reaction slowly. A small smile crept across his lips, John's lips, "Family is most important to you, that is certain. So what if I can bring your father back?"

The angel gestured at his current body, eyebrows raised but Dean was already shaking his head. "You can't do that."

"I can."

Silence. It stretched tight across the room, across the dream.

"What's dead should stay dead." spoke Dean finally, slowly, carefully. "I've learnt my lesson."

He moved off the bed, standing to his full height, not quite as tall as John but able to hold the angel's gaze square, incredulity sinking in. "So let me get this straight, you just thought you could roll up here and persuade me. No, not even that, you tried to use my _father_ to do the persuading." he gestured up and down. "Dude, I'm not tempted, I'm insulted."

Michael took an alarmed step back. "I thought you would take comfort in familiarity." A shrug again and he looked increasingly confused, as if Dean was not what he had expected.

The frown that stretched across his features was exactly the same one John used to wear when a case stumped him temporarily, leaving him frustrated and perplexed that something had managed to win one over him. An unexpected problem, a riddle more challenging than usual. Good, Dean liked being an enigma, watching them squirm.

"Whose side are you on?" he demanded.

"Heaven's." The response was immediate, the angel seemingly assure in that at least.

Dean shook his head though, waving it off. "That's not an answer."

"I don't comprehend your question...I fight against Lucifer."

"That's even less of a distinction."

But Michael just stood there and blinked, oblivious to what Dean was talking about. Finally Dean just sighed, sinking back onto the edge of the bed, rubbing his face in his hands. "You know what, go to Hell, Mike. Go to Hell, take a look around, then come back and try to win me over. It took thirty years down there for me to say yes and buddy," he looked up again and gave Michael a small shrug."you don't really compare."

He lay back then, sprawled across the bed horizontal, eyes closed.

"This world does not have thirty years." Michael stated flatly.

Dean didn't even twitch. "The world has me, and my brother and our friends."

"You are only people."

That got Dean's eyes open and he blinked up at the ceiling, contemplating that, contemplating an answer suitable that didn't including him swearing at an angel. Didn't know how that would go down. Didn't really want to test it, what with the smiting and all.

Sitting up, he glanced across at the still unconscious Sam before turning back to Michael, voice low, "Yes, we are people. People fighting for people. We are not demons or angels or any vessels in between. We will win this war as _people_. If not, we die as people without anyone holding power over us. Your God made us as we are, we will not, _I_ will not, give myself to you just because you lot are idiots and screwed this world." his voice was gaining in volume and he paused, holding himself in check, beginning again in a harsh whisper, "I will fight but I will not help with the clean-up on your behalf, not as your pawn or your so called sword. See, that's called a choice and its mine. Free will, look it up...no, better yet, go ask your God why he gave it to us. Maybe then you lot will finally, _finally_ understand."

Michael's head was cocked, that infuriating expression near every angel Dean had ever met adopted when human's confused them. Or got them curious. Stupid idiots just didn't get it. Dean pitied them for it. Their lack of humanity.

"No Dean," the angel said finally. "you see, I do understand."

He turned his back to the two beds and took a step towards the window, lifting the curtain back slightly to peer out at the gradual beginnings of a new day, "I understand and I respect you for it. Righteous man indeed Dean Winchester," he glanced back at Dean and smiled gently. "You encompass all that is just and true about humans, about people."

"Oh, well, now you're making me blush." Dean said flatly, shimmying back up to the pillow, finally reaching underneath and replacing the knife as it was. He closed his eyes, feinting sleep, maybe hoping for a flutter of wings and the sudden lack of heavenly representative within the room. Beneath his eyelids he saw a shadow fall over him, his wish apparently precisely that.

"But the point still stands. I need you." Michael continued.

Dean cracked open one eye, squinting up at the figure looming over him, as his father, intimidating, as the leader of the armies of God, decidedly not, "And my answer still stands. Leave me the hell alone."

"I can't."

Dean let out a long sigh, both eyes now open. "And I can't."

Michael seemed frustrated. "You will be responsible for the end of days."

"I'm already responsible, aren't I? As are you. This is your punishment. I'm still receiving mine."

The last part was almost spoken to himself and he regarded that for a moment, twitching his head to look across at Sam, who at that moment chose to let out a large trumpeting snore. Dean smirked, a very realistic dreamscape it seemed, but it was about time to wake up. His eyes shut for a final time as he repositioned himself back down into the mattress, dismissing Michael. "Now, as backward as it is, I'm going to fall asleep and wake up now, okay? Hope I don't see you around dude, no offense."

"You _will_ see me around." came John's voice somewhere to Dean's left.

Dean yawned, shrugging against the pillow. "Yeah, figured as much. Just avoid the John get up next time, yeah? _So _not impressive."

A split second later and he swore he heard a flutter of wings, leaving pure silence. Now, in theory, if he just drifted back into dream sleep he would eventually -

"Dean, jeezus, Dean, wake up, come on."

Hands were at his shoulders, large hands, worried hands and with a gasp his body jerked upward and his eyes opened again -watery eyes, streaming eyes. Huh. It appears he was now shaking, racking uncontrollable sobs erupting out of his chest, surprising him and most certainly scaring Sam.

"Dean, come on man, Dean, what's wrong?"

A panicked set of little brother eyes were searching his face, then the rest of him, looking for any signs of damage. The hands weren't touching him anymore, consciousness apparently frightening touch off. Now Sam's hands were hovering, having moved back, perching himself precisely where his quasi-father had sat mere moments before. Dean would have though the tears would cease come awareness but, no, there he was crying, bawling. Slightly embarrassing.

"Fuck Sam."

He was sniffing, desperately trying to reel it all in, an attempt to get rid of that helplessness stretched across Sam's concerned features. Yet it wasn't working. In fact, regardless of his efforts, the tears kept coming and he felt mildly pathetic.

"Dean?"

His hand found its way to Sam's shoulder, grasping the fabric there, needing it, always needing it.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Dean..."

"I fucking hate angels."

"What?"

But Dean didn't elaborate for a moment, having a hard time breathing through the sobs. And then there was Sam's hand on his back, rotating in slow circles, not quite a hug but extremely close. Some part of Dean wanted to push away, the other part recognised he was the one that had first initiated the contact. So he let Sam continue, realising that whatever he felt about Sam at the moment, no matter the tears down his own face, it seemed Sam needed this touch, the comfort, even more than himself. Didn't mean Dean didn't need it either though, not at all.

Just before things began to become awkward and, slowly feeling semi normal, Dean finally pulled away, giving an embarrassed shrug at the question splayed silently across Sam's face, saying only, "You know what Sammy, I am so sick of keeping up a game face, so very sick."

Sam's reply was simple and earnest, "Then don't."

"I can't Sam," Dean said gently, smile tired, "because then they win. And they can't win."

He watched this as it was processed, Sam's next words reluctant but once again true, "But you were right before Dean, I don't honestly think _we_ can win either."

Dean ran a hand through his hair, sinking back against the headrest, "We don't have to win, we just have to make sure they don't. Stubborn to the end. Michael can go fuck himself."

"Michael?" Sam's eyebrows did that thing when they met in the middle, alarm and confusion competing against each other.

Dean waved it off, "Nothing, weird dream, that's all. Go back to sleep Sammy."

Sam's face went from annoyed, to indignant, to wary, to concerned. "What about you?"

"I'm okay." The firmness in Dean's voice was an attempt at enforcing the point.

Didn't really work on Sam though, never had, and he still sounded skeptical. "Really?"

"Yes dude, jeez, minor meltdown, no biggie."

Sam stood reluctantly, not looking very convinced. "No biggie?"

Dean pulled the sheets back up, trying to appear normal and poised. "No biggie."

"Game face back on, then?" Sam rolled his eyes with the question, torn between fondness and frustration directed at his brother as he clambering back into him own bed.

Ooooh, nice one Sammy. Dean didn't dignify it with a response though, merely an indignant harrumph and both were silent once more.

Give it a couple of hours and the sun would slowly start to rise. They'd promised Bobby they'd be back at the hospital bright and early with coffee and almost edible food, ready to sort out this whole, you know, apocalypse business. Therefore it was best to take what sleep they could.

But half and hour later Sam's breathing hadn't evened out. Neither had Dean's.

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_A/N: So, Lucifer chatting with Nick in the premiere led me to ponder a similar situation between Dean and Michael. I wanted my Michael to be, not arrogant as such, but naive in believing his vessel would feel honored to do this job, be the sword, save the world. He may appear, timid of sorts here and, sure, this guy is the leader of the armies of God, but in this moment he isn't welding a sword, leading the charge, no, he's almost trying to talk a peace treaty. He sees it as a good deal and it is a good deal actually, so granted he's a little perplexed at Dean. Understatement. Face it people, Dean is perplexing._

Hope you enjoyed and please review, reviews equal warm fuzzies.


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